Struck by Lightening
by AngieT
Summary: Merry has an accident but Pippin is coming to his rescue.


"Struck by Lightning"

A birthday story for Nickeyb.

Edited by Milo

Merry was on his way back to Brandy Hall when the first heavy drops of rain started to fall. The day had been clear and bright when he had started off on his rounds of Buckland but steadily the wind had picked up and the sky had become threatening with low dark clouds rolling in.

He had stopped off at a farm for his lunch, talking to tenants and viewing the progress of the crops. It was so early in the year that rainfall would not damage anything and so Merry was worried for nothing more than getting soaked himself. By midday the threat of rain or even a storm was so clearly imminent that Merry made up his mind to turn back for home. There was no point in him or his pony getting wet and, in addition, the armour he had habitually worn he did not want getting wet. Wet chain mail had a tendency to leave rusty deposits on the skin and clothing and while skin just required a nice long soak, the clothing took a lot of soaking to get clean. He wanted to get his mail into a bucket of sand well before that might happen.

He took a short cut through some woodland and when he arrived out the other side the sky was quite dark as though evening were arriving early. A large black cloud had obscured most of the sky and now Merry only hoped he could get home before the storm started.

He regretted more than ever he had not bought his Rohan steed out with him but had chosen instead to take out the new mare – Rowanberry. Stybba, battle-trained, would not have balked at thunder and lightning, but Merry was still testing the mettle of his new mount and was so far finding her sadly lacking. That was slightly unfair, he amended - she was a perfectly sound mount, for a Shire mount of which nothing more was required than a comfortable ride over soft country and the occasional canter up a lane.

Feeling guilty for his uncharitable thoughts, Merry reached out and patted the neck in front of him, picking a few pink blossoms from the sandy mane. This wind would be the downfall of the last of the blossom still clinging to the trees in the orchard. It was a shame; it looked so beautiful, and reminded him of the White Tree of Gondor. But the blossom had to fall for the fruit to form, and fond as he was of the blossom he was even fonder of the apples thus produced.

As was the wont with summer storms the first shock of lightning caught both pony and rider by surprise. Merry jumped slightly himself and Rowanberry snorted her disapproval of the sudden incandescent flash. The thunder seemed to follow almost straight away and the rain was pelting down before Merry even had time to draw breath. They were in for a soaking and no help for it.

The next strike of lightning splitting the sky impressed Rowanberry even less and Merry hastily dismounted in order to hold her head and calm his skittish mount. He was thinking the mare would need a lot more work before she was a truly reliable beast. She shifted her hindquarters about, shifting her weight, nervous and uncomfortable for all Merry whispered and soothed her, stroking her rapidly rain slicked muzzle. Her dancing was carrying them back in the direction of the trees, where Merry certainly did not want to go, considering the lightning and his own armour-clad form.

Another crack of thunder, like a mountain splitting open, decided the matter. Rowanberry flung up her head with a snort of fear and dragged Merry across the already mud-slicked ground and back under the trees. Like the work of dark wizardry, the lightning cracked right above them; with a squeal of fear Rowanberry tore her reins from Merry's wet gauntlets. Merry staggered back, stumbled over a fallen branch and fell against a tree trunk. Light tore across his vision and the world seemed to split open around him. Something struck him a great blow from behind and for a moment he was frozen, caught by the blast, the air torn from his lungs, and then he knew no more.

Pippin was sitting in the kitchen when the stable man came to report Rowanberry had returned on her own, wet through, wild eyed and shaking. He had left the pony with one of the lads and come straight up to the Hall. Pippin was striding from the kitchen swinging his still damp cloak about his shoulders before the tale had been fully told.

The storm hit him full blast as he opened the kitchen door, almost knocking him back for a moment. Saradoc was behind him and was nearly knocked from his feet altogether.

"Which way will he have gone?" Pippin asked.

Saradoc considered. "I'm guessing Merry would have turned back at lunch time when the storm looked fair to set in. He might have tried to beat the storm by cutting through he woods."

"We should be able to follow her trail for awhile. The storm won't have washed it out yet. We'll probably find Merry trekking back and cursing." Pippin's grin was no more than a twitch of his lips. He was worried.

More people were already gathering in the stables and saddling ponies. Pippin saddled his own mount and Saradoc summarily took the first of the others to be ready. Parties were formed and the hobbits rode out in to the storm.

Like most early storms this one was short and sharp and by the time Pippin and Saradoc reached the stretch of woodland that cut across Brandybuck lands it had blown itself out. Pippin shook raindrops from his hair and cloak.

"He could have cut through anywhere," he turned to Saradoc.

"There's a path he would likely follow," Saradoc replied steering his pony to one side.

"This storm will have done some damage," Pip opined. "There's bound to have been trees struck. Hold up!" he was jumping down from his horse to crouch in the ground. "There are prints here. A pony running, lightly burdened or rider less." The depressions were filled with water and the mud dissolving already. Pippin looked up, squinting through the wet hair still falling into his eyes. "Does your path come out over by that oak?"

Saradoc nodded. "It's the tallest tree around and marks the entrance."

"Looks like it's been struck too." Pippin remounted. "I hate to see trees stuck by lightning. It reminds me too much of …" His voice trailed off.

"I see it," Saradoc kicked his pony forwards but Pippin was already ahead. Before them the great oak was showing a still smoking rending gap where a limb had been torn away. It looked like an awful battle wound. Splintered wood hung from the gash that had ripped away half the bark on one side. The wood beneath showed blackening where the lightning strike had scorched it.

They arrived more or less together and Pippin was falling from his pony, slipping to his knees in the mud by the fallen body of his friend, cousin and comrade. This was all too familiar.

"Merry! Merry!"

Merry was lying face down in the mud, his face twisted to one side. His limps were sprawled out at odd angles. Pippin sniffed. There was the distinct smell of singed flesh.

"To the Master! To the Master!" Voices were calling and more help was arriving. Saradoc went to his knees by his son's side. This would kill Esme. Water was soaking through the knees of his breeches. A large drop fell from the tree down the back of his neck. Merry was lying in the mud, drenched, face pale and lifeless. Pippin was pulling him into his arms, resting the limp head on his knee as he felt at the neck for the life beat. Half of Merry's hair was plastered down with mud, the other sticking up and singed. He could not do this. Eyes were bruised looking. There was blood at his nose and at one side of his mouth. The dripping of water from the leaves was unnaturally loud.

"Merry!" Pip was still calling. "He's breathing." Pippin's voice seemed a long way away to Saradoc. The dripping was louder. There were others around them now. His tall, magnificent son, lying in the mud. They were lifting him now. Someone had a pallet.

"Uncle?" Pippin's voice sounded plaintive by his side.

Saradoc took a deep breath. The first one he could remember taking for an age. Pip's sharp-featured face came into focus, full of concern, brows creased together, mouth pursed up.

"Pippin?"

"We have to get him back," Pippin said. "Call for the healer. I think he's been struck by lightning."

Saradoc could not afterwards say how they had got back to Brandy Hall. Someone had run ahead and there was a bustle of activity to greet them. Merry was taken from them and vanished into the corridors of Brandy Hall. Dr Burrows was already in attendance and enough hot water and towels were in evidence to have cleaned an army of hobbits. In the middle of this was Esme, directing. Her face was pale but her voice was calm and strong as she issued her final orders and followed the doctor.

Pippin refused to leave Merry's side and, as he was now taller than any of them and no tweenager to be hustled aside, no one tried to argue with him, they just worked round him.

Pippin put himself in charge of the fireplace in Merry's room, which he banked up and stood over with a poker in his hand as if to defend it against attack. He grasped the poker as though it were a sword as he watched them undress and bathe Merry. His cousin showed no signs of rousing. He just lay limp and let them deal with him. It reminded Pippin all too much of the time he had bought Merry back to the Houses of Healing. For a time the healers had despaired, he knew. The Black Breath was upon his cousin and he was growing colder and colder by the moment. Pippin had sat and held Merry's hand and felt him slipping further and further away into whatever realm the witch king had condemned him to. Just when he was about to despair totally, with the hand he held in his already as cold as the grave, Aragorn had appeared and sat on Merry's other side. The man was looking tired already. He sat in silence a while looking intently at the hobbit on the bed, then reaching forward and resting his hand across Merry's brow. As he sat his face had become even more grey and drawn, and at length, when he finally stood up, he seemed unsteady on his feet. Pip had hardly noticed. On the bed Merry had taken a deep breath and sighed and Pippin could already feel warmth returning to the hand in his. Not long after Merry had woken up and demanded food.

Pippin longed for Merry to wake up now. In the Houses of Healing he had felt so isolated. A small hobbit amongst tall strangers. He missed his cousins reassuring voice so very much. Missed seeing the blue eyes full of intelligent humour and enthusiasm. Missed being the one to be looked after.

Now he looked around the room at the bustling figures of Esme, the doctor and the maid. He felt isolated again. A tall stranger in the familiar room. Only Merry knew what he had been through, only Merry was like him now. He longed suddenly for Frodo, for wise, caring Frodo, but that could no longer be.

They were putting a nightshirt on to Merry's supine body. Bandages had been put around his left shoulder and the side where the skin was burnt. His left arm had likewise been lightly bandaged and the room smelled of herbs. They had given Merry some to drink, massaging his throat when he could not swallow by himself. His hair had also been washed and some one had already cut away the singed parts. There was a bandage around his head too, where he had struck it on falling. The white cloth covered the healed brown scar and Pippin found himself wondering if Orc brew would rouse his cousin this time.

The doctor was talking to Esme by the door as the maid cleared away the bathing things and used supplies. Pippin did not know the girls name. She was pretty. But he could not take the time just now to attend to anyone other than his cousin.

Pippin moved to the bed and took up the abandoned chair. The chair had been made for Merry upon his return and so could accommodate Pippin's longer legs. He pulled it up closer and reached out to take Merry's unbandanged hand, fear creeping into his heart and turning to nightmare in his mind as he did. It was cold.

Merry gradually regained his awareness.

Wherever he was it was cold. And dark.

He was lying on his back and there was cloth binding his limbs and draped across him. It was dark, save for a pinpoint of light off to his left but he could not turn his head to see it.

He was trembling, feeling colder than he ever had in his life. Keeping his eyes open was a great effort but he forced his eyelids up. The light was a little closer now. A candle flame maybe. Two candle flames. His head hurt dreadfully. He was so cold, but as the flames came closer he discovered that he could not move; he could no longer even shiver.

His eyes fell closed again, the lids too heavy to keep open. All of him felt so heavy, so heavy. He wanted to give way and to sleep but he felt there was some urgent need to keep his eyes open.

He opened his eyes again. He must keep them open. The candles were much closer now; their light hurt his eyes, and he realised that they were not candles, but eyes, illuminated from within by a deadly presence. He needed to move; he needed to get up, to get away from here. Somewhere there was sunshine and fresh air and he wanted to reach them, but he found he could hardly remember such things. But his body was so heavy and the chains they had laid upon him were so heavy. He knew he should be afraid, but somehow any emotion seemed leached from him, too much effort.

The eyes were even closer now, leaning over him. They were the only illumination but he could see the ravaged, skeletal face they were set in. The baleful glare glinted on gold and on age-bleached white bones lying about him as the hand reached for him.

"Pip…" Merry forced the words out though it hurt to speak. If he was so cold how come his throat felt full of fire? "Not Pip." He tightened his grip on the sword in his hand and tried to move his arm. The Barrow-Wight was looming directly above him now. He had to move his hand but it was just too heavy. The bracelets on his arms were just too heavy.

"No!" Flooded by a sudden rush of panic, he wrenched his arm up and out, swung at the creature's shoulder and connected. There was a cry, a shriek.

When Merry had called his name Pippin had leant further over the bed. Merry's eyelids were fluttering as though he was trying to raise them and his breath was bordering on a gasp.

"Merry," he called. "It's Pip. I'm here. Open your eyes for me."

Merry had not opened his eyes but he had swung out his sword arm and caught Pip a blow which knocked the startled Took from his seat and onto the floor.

"Merry!"

Esme was in the room and she ran to her son's side. She had been wringing out a herb infused cloth to place on Merry's face.

Merry groaned but seemed to sink back into himself. There were tears in Esme's eyes and she reached out to take Pippin's hand and squeeze it before she leant over to place a kiss onto Merry's brow.

It was near midnight before Merry moved again. An out breath turned into a groan and his hands twitched upon the bedding. Esme and Pippin were instantly alert, having spent the night so far listening for any change in their patient's breathing. Esme turned up the lamp slightly and they could both see the sheen of sweat on Merry's brow and upper lip. He was trying to lick his lips and swallowed convulsively.

Pippin recognised the signs first and reached for a basin. Esme supported Merry's head whilst Pip held the basin for him to be sick into. By the time he had finished retching, miserable blue eyes had opened and Merry winced.

"Hello," said Pippin brightly. "That was a nice way to say good morning."

"What.. happened..." Merry groaned. Esme handed him a club of water but she had to hold it for him.

"Believe it or not," Pip announced. "You were struck by lightning."

"Get away," said Merry in disbelief and then grimaced at the taste in his mouth. Esme helped to ease him back down onto the pillow.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Like the time I drank that cask of the Gaffer's home brew at my 23rd birthday."

"That bad?" Pip was impressed.

"You were too young to remember," Merry protested.

"I remember you being sick for days. You set the standard for me for being sick. I never could match your volume or distance."

Merry groaned. "How's Rowanberry?"

"Fine," replied Esme. "She has more sense than to stay out in the rain." She turned away suddenly to busy herself at the side table, keeping her head lowered. "I'll just tell your father you're awake."

Merry tried to look down at his bandaged side but his head was thumping like orc drums. "Feels like we've done this before."

"Burns mostly," Pippin supplied without Merry having to ask. "And you hit your head. Luckily that's as thick as an anvil."

"Going… be sick… again," Merry managed.

"I'm not surprised," Pip was matter of fact as he held the basin again. This time Merry retched until nothing but bile came up. He fell back onto the pillow with a groan and let Pippin wipe his mouth.

"How do you feel? Apart from sick to your stomach."

Merry kept his eyes closed. "Woozy, my head is killing me. And I'm sure something small and furry has been hibernating in my mouth. The rest of me feels a bit numb."

"They gave you herbs enough to numb the sort of pain that could fell an Oliphant."

"I hate to think how I would feel with out them," Merry's voice sounded a little slurred. Pippin reached for a cloth and wiped Merry's face. His skin felt very hot to the touch.

"Rest," Pippin said. "I'll look after you." Though he was sure Merry was already asleep again.

Pippin sat up with Merry after her husband had persuaded Esmie to bed. Saradoc was looking weary and positively old. He had been such a larger than life figure in Pippin's life and the young hobbit wondered when he had got so old and shrunken. It must have been whilst they were away on the Quest.

Pippin changed the cool cloth on Merry's brow. His fingers lingered to stroke curls and trace the old raised brown scar on Merry's forehead.

"Ah, Merry," he sighed. Sitting in this room made it seem but a moment since they were children together. Merry still had some of the trappings of that old life around. Hanging from the ceiling was the box kite they had flown so many summers. Inevitably it had become tangled in a tree and Pippin had been the one to climb up after it. Funny old Merry to have kept it. Maybe he was saving it for his own children. Pippin remembered running across the fields with the wind in his hair feeling as though he would live forever on that one hot summers day. The kite was yellow and faded now – but some one was keeping it dusted. Its tail of ribbon's stolen from Pippin's sisters, was looped up over it. The blue ribbon's were Pearls favourite colour, the green Vincas; filched from her dressing table. The yellow ones had been carefully plucked from Nell's hair with out her even noticing the loss.

He was almost envious of the next child who would play with it, whom Merry would teach to fly. Merry would make a wonderful father, just the right balance of seriousness and fun. Merry was courting now; no double Estelle would be here as soon as news reached her.

Pippin swallowed. Somehow the thought brought a lump to his throat. He was used to being Merry's little Pippin, being looked after, guided and guarded over. Somehow he had thought that on their return to the Shire things would be the same as they had once been.

Too much had changed. From the time when Gandalf had carried him away on Shadowfax, to the time he had been sent in search of Merry after he had helped to slay the Witch-King. He had been longing to be in Merry's protective embrace again but instead had found himself being the carer. He had got Merry to the Houses of Healing and there, during that long night when Merry nearly succumbed to the darkness he realised there was no going back.

He did not like to think of all that had come after, the battle and the troll; Frodo and Sam being bought back. Then Frodo had woken and he too was changed. Feeling treacherous for being less than joyful at his cousin's restoration Pippin had cried that first night Frodo woke up. Merry had taken him into his arms and comforted him then.

Then finally, under their very noses it seemed, Frodo had faded away. Vibrant Frodo, the weaver of tales, who had always had the storyteller's gift of holding back time. Time had caught up with him in the end and when Pippin looked too long into the fire he could see the white sail fading into the distance and the blur of tears in his eyes. More than anything he wished he could talk with Frodo one last time.

Pippin stood up and eased the crick that was forming in his back. Merry was resting peacefully now. Considering for a moment, Pippin eased himself down onto the bed next to Merry and snuggled close so that he could bury his nose into bright curls.

For Merry waking up was like swimming upstream against a strong current. It seemed to take him an age to reach the shore but slowly he became aware of the softness of the mattress beneath his body, the plump pillow upon which his aching head rested and the weight of a body next to his.

He knew without opening his eyes that it was Pippin. They had curled up like this so often during the years. And the smell of cider apples was strong in his nose.

Merry did open his eyes and turned his head. Pippin was buried face first into the pillow. Merry smiled. How Pippin slept like that with out suffocating he did not know.

Merry must have made some sound because Pippin shifted and a bright green eye opened. "O, you're awake," Pippin yawned and stretched like a cat in front of the hearth. Merry winced as he heard bones cracking. "How do you feel?"

"Better," said Merry.

"I'd better go see about some breakfast then," Pippin was up, matter of factly. Merry envied Pippin, who never seemed to have an in-between state – he was either awake or asleep. It took Merry longer to wake up, especially now, when his head ached and innumerable small pains were making themselves felt throughout his body.

"Um.." Merry shifted uncomfortably. "Pip, before you go…"

Pippin looked blank for a moment but then enlightenment dawned. "Right ho! Bed pan or privy?" He asked matter of factly.

"Privy," said Merry decidedly.

Pippin flung back the bed covers and then sat on the side of the bed, getting one arm under Merry and helping him to ease upright. They took it slowly with much wincing on Merry's part. Eventually he gained his feet with most of his weight propped up on Pippin.

"Off we go," Pippin was far too chipper in the mornings. "Seems like we've done this before."

"Yes, but we were both drunk then," Merry replied, he was looking pale again and most unsteady on his feet.

"Let me know if you're going to puke," Pippin chirped.

"Pippin!" Merry could only groan. They were out into the corridor now, which was thankfully deserted and they gained the privy with no one appearing.

"I'll just prop you up then shall I?" Pip seemed to be enjoying Merry's discomfiture.

"Well, I certainly don't need you to hold it for me!" was Merry's retort. He hated feeling so helpless and, truth was, he did think he might be sick again.

"That's good," said Pip, "Cause I need to go myself."

Merry opted for standing; he didn't think he would be able to get up again once seated. He felt stiff and bruised all over as though the previous day had involved some strenuous activity rather than just sitting on pony back – and being stuck by lightning.

He finished his business and staggered the few paces to the basin whilst Pippin was still involved. It was there he got his first look into a mirror.

"Pippin!"

Hastily rebuttoning Pippin appeared a look of concern on his face at the distressed tons in his cousins voice. "Merry, what's wrong? Are you going to be sick?"

"Look at me!" cried Merry. "What did they do to me? Estella will be here today – and look at my hair!"

Pippin looked. About one quarter of Merry's hair had been cut short where it had been singed, another quarter, at the back, was lying flat and straight from where he had been lying on it, the third quarter was hidden behind bandaged and the rest stood up on end.

It did look very funny!

Pippin shorted, he sniggered, and then he burst out laughing. "It does look very stupid," he finally opined.

End


End file.
